


Of Nympheas and Nocturnes

by mundanecactus



Series: Angel of Music, Devil's Child [2]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Female Phantom, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:13:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24756826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mundanecactus/pseuds/mundanecactus
Summary: What wonders does the city of Vienna hold for a sheltered ex-ballerina and a basement-dwelling hermit? Christine and Erika leave the past behind, and find that there is more to life than the opera.My love for these two could not be contained within the bounds of the original musical so I'm GOING ROGUE. Unapologetic fluff - they deserve nice things, damn it.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Series: Angel of Music, Devil's Child [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1789978
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	Of Nympheas and Nocturnes

The trip from Paris to Austria takes the better part of a week, and by the time Christine and the Phantom arrive, they’re exhausted. They jump from hostel to hostel, bandaging the upper part of the Phantom’s face each time they go to let rooms. “She’s been in a terrible accident in Marseille,” Christine whispers confidentially to each manager, “and I’ve been engaged to aid her in travelling back to her homeland. Serbia, you know.” It’s a reasonable enough lie; the Phantom’s accent is a touch Eastern, could be Serbian to an uninformed innkeeper in the countryside. Christine wonders about that—where the Phantom is from, what her story is. The journey is too exhausting for the long conversations of the sort that surely need to happen. She makes a mental list of her questions, and collapses onto a narrow bed in a postage stamp of a room, pressed tight to the Phantom—no, Erika, she reminds herself—for warmth.

They step out of the carriage and onto the streets of Vienna midmorning on the fifth day. It is cold and clear outside, passerby well bundled, and Christine draws her cloak close as Erika draws her hood over her mask. “Alright,” Christine says, rubbing her hands together. “Er. Vienna.”

“Vienna,” Erika agrees, her eyes wide within the shadows of the mask. “So. We find an opera house, and explore the basement. Old buildings like these,” she gestures, “connect into others quite often, I’ve found. And forgotten tunnels below. I’m sure—”

“Hold on. Is that your plan?”

Erika cocks her head—it’s a gesture that Christine is growing to find endearing, but seems absurd now. “I… yes?”

Christine shakes her head. “No. We’re… we’re going to live in a proper place. Both of us—no dormitory, no… basement. We’ll find a boarding house.”

Erika blinks a little. “Will they let me?”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

She gestures vaguely to her face, and Christine winces. There’s undoubtedly misinformation Erika has picked up over the years at play here, beliefs put together from an incomplete picture of the world. She’s not sure of the shape of it yet, and it’s not like her own picture is much broader, but she takes Erika’s hand and squeezes it. “It’s not a crime to be different,” she tells her gently, then reconsiders. “But, um, murder very much is. A crime. So let’s…”

“Minimize it,” Erika says, nodding sagely, and Christine swallows hard.

“Excuse me,” she calls to a passerby, who looks at her oddly and keeps on his way. She tries again, and is met by a red-cheeked woman’s atrocious French. “No speak,” she says helplessly, and Christine kicks herself. Of course, Austria-Hungary. German. She doesn’t speak German.

Erika steps up, and Christine is surprised to hear her manage what sounds like German to her. Evidently not to the woman; she wrinkles her nose, but nods slowly, and then replies in kind. Erika bites her lip and turns to Christine. “Apparently my accent is bad; my fault for learning out of books. But she knows a few places, and one where the landlady might speak French.”

“You learned German out of a book?”

“To read Wagner’s lyrics. I also know Italian, Roma, and a bit of English.” She looks rather self-satisfied. “Come, though—she says she hasn’t got all day.”

So the two of them follow the red-cheeked woman along a busy avenue, then down an alley or two to a narrow townhouse painted green. The sign is in six languages, and proclaims “Rooms to Let; Internationals Welcome - Frau Madelin’s”. They glance at each other, and Christine thanks their aide profusely. They mount the steps, and shut themselves in against the cold.

Inside, the lobby is packed with floral overstuffed armchairs, the fire roaring fit to swelter its occupants, and indeed the few residents here are dressed very lightly for the season. A rotund woman in a fluffy shawl tracks their entrance, and narrows her eyes as they cautiously approach the counter. She snaps her fingers and says something incomprehensible to Christine’s ears, but Erika stiffens. Then she turns and says in Swedish, “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”

“In—indeed,” she stammers, and the woman clicks her tongue disappointedly and switches to French.

“Apologies, dear—I fancy myself having a talent with spotting these things. The two of you are French? Not Swedish? Not Romany?”

“Swedish by birth,” she laughs. “How could you tell?”

The woman smiles beneficently. “Oh, I just can. Most of the time, anyhow.” She clasps her hands. “Now. I am Madame Madelin, and I imagine that the two of you are looking for rooms?”

“Yes.” Erika glances at Christine out of the corner of her eye. “We are…”

“Travelling companions,” Christine supplies. “Or I hers. Her nurse.”

“Ah.” Madelin nods, comprehension of Erika’s mask and hood dawning. “Poor dear. Two rooms, then? For how long?”

“The one will be sufficient, so long as there is a… parlor.” Erika says the word slowly, as if she’s making sure that parlors are the sort of thing a flat has. She glances at Christine. “We currently have… limited means. But an extended stay.”

“Mm.” Madelin flips through a large ledger. “Well, there is the attic—a little parlor and single room. You’d share the floor and its washroom with Herr Weber. He is an old man, so I wouldn’t expect any impropriety. A mute, but he plays the harpsichord at odd hours, which is why I struggle to let the room. Would that bother you?”

“Not at all,” Erika breathes, and Christine finds a smile rising to her lips. She’s sure that they’re about to become well-acquainted with their prospective neighbor.

“Oh, goodness, you two are new to the city, aren’t you?” Madelin surveys their francs with dismay once the terms of the lease have been drawn up. Christine isn’t sure if it’s a good price, but with the small fortune Erika has amassed exhorting the Opera Populaire, she’s sure it will be fine. “Here—I’ll hold the room for you, and send you to my money-changer. He’s my cousin; he’ll give you a fair price.”

Erika is wary of the whole business, Christine can tell; she holds their suitcases close as they head to the money-changer’s, and insists on doing the math herself. “So if a pair of shoes is thirty francs, and here it’s—” she glances in the window of a shop—“eight gulden…”

They decide not to change all their money at once, to avoid setting people to talking, and return to the lodging house with some difficulty. Neither of them, it seems, are well-used to navigating unfamiliar city streets. Madelin accepts the gulden happily, and shows them to their attic rooms without further ado.

It’s small, but compared to what Christine’s used to in the ballet dormitories, it’s an immense space to have to herself. The parlor is finished with simple but handsome furniture, empty bookshelves along one wall, and a tiny stove and sink in another part of the flat constitutes their kitchen. Can either of them cook? Christine bites her lip as they file through to see the bedroom. Its windows look into the well between two rows of buildings, a small garden space with a pond below them. The sun glints off mirror-bright ice; it is February still, but it will undoubtedly be lovely in the spring.

Madelin leaves them, and immediately Erika drops onto the bed—a meager affair with room for about a person and a half. “I’ve never had windows,” she says to the lofty ceilings, and Christine giggles. “This bed will need to go. We—” she sits up, and purses her lips. “Is it alright with you that I only asked for the one room?”

“Yes,” Christine assures her. “I’ve never slept alone in a room in my life, and I don’t aim to start now.” She sits on the bed as well, and laces her fingers through Erika’s. “Even outside of… circumstances.”

Erika smirks a bit, and places a careful kiss just under her jaw. “Indeed. My nurse?”

“You’re a rich widow, I figure,” she explains. “Travelling the continent.”

“And how do we explain when you show up as the leading lady at the Theater an der Wien?”

She shrugged. “Unexpected talent. I’m sure no one would bother to ask. Or no one in Vienna, anyway.” For a moment the ghost of what they’ve left behind sits there on the bed with them, but Christine waves her hand and disperses the worry quickly. There’s very little chance they’ll be found. Two women in a house with dozens of rooms, in a city with thousands of houses. They won’t have issues if they lie low. And if they decide to no longer lie low, well… perhaps by then, they’ll be in a place to return fire.

***

Christine takes a nap in the early afternoon as Erika explores their new home, poking about in the corners and cabinets. There don’t seem to be any secret passages, which is a disappointment, but the fireplace is a nice feature, and she’s never had a neighbor who doesn’t want her dead before. She goes and looks at Herr Weber’s door, tries to peer under the crack, then examines his belongings in the washroom. Mustache oil—a mustache! She isn’t able to get much further than that, though, and applies herself to unpacking and planning instead. The clothes she took from her collection in the opera house basement fill the wardrobe immediately, and she has to shuffle things around to fit Christine’s in as well. Hmm. Maybe Christine would have preferred to unpack herself. Erika has been struggling with that, lately—trying to make sure she lets Christine and others have a say in things. She’s used to getting her way by any means necessary and frequently disregarding others, but she doesn’t think that’s how people behave when they’re not ghosts. She leaves the rest of Christine’s things, and locates her writing instruments instead, finding them homes in the writing desk in the parlor.

Christine makes her way out sleepy-eyed after a few hours, and peers over Erika’s shoulder, their cheeks pressed together. Erika is still wearing her mask, so it’s a bit awkward, but she doesn’t mind. Christine smells like flowers and warmth, and she’s been finding herself craving touch now that she’s actually had some human contact. “What are you writing?”

“A list of things we need.” She finishes the word with a flourish, and hands it to Christine to inspect. “What do you think? Am I missing anything?”

“Food,” Christine says after a moment. “Lamp oil.”

Erika nods, embarrassed. “Right. Yes.”

“Let’s see. Sealing wax, okay…”

“For sending notes to our neighbor,” Erika explains. Christine gives her a look. “Nice notes!” she scoffs. “I promise. No threats.”

Christine raises her eyebrows doubtfully. “Anyway. Flowers—yes, excellent. Candles, candelabras, chandelier? Okay, books—we’ll need a French-language bookstore for me, I suppose… a piano?” She looks pained.

Erika crosses her arms. “Why not?”

“We can’t get a piano up here!”

“The neighbor has a harpsichord! We’ll hire movers.”

“What if Madame Madelin doesn’t like it?”

“Then I will bribe her.” Erika raises her chin, and Christine sighs. She hesitates—was that too much? “Or… I mean, if you really…”

“No, no.” Christine glances around. “I just… it seems crazy, to settle down and have… lots of things. I know you had more that you left behind. I just… I hope we don’t have to leave, is all.”

“We’re seven hundred miles from Paris,” Erika says in what she hopes is a gentle tone of voice. “We might as well be in America for all they know.”

Christine laughs. “I know, I know.” She sits on the couch, and leans over the arm towards Erika. “Alright. Your list is good. What do we do now?

“Shops, dinner.” She glances Christine’s way with a little smile. “Then, maybe, the opera?”


End file.
